


Forever

by MyChemicalRachel



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3266381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyChemicalRachel/pseuds/MyChemicalRachel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank goes to Narcotics Anonymous and tells the story of how he fell in love with Gerard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever

**Summary:**   
_Frank goes to Narcotics Anonymous and tells the story of how he fell in love with Gerard.  
Warning: Pretty descriptive drug use._

•••

My mouth is dry. My hands are shaking. I feel like I might be sick, but I bite back the bile and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. The chair is too hard under me all of a sudden and I find myself shifting again. “Umm…” I risk a glance around the circle-- Most of them are watching me. Not judging glances really, but intrusive. They’re waiting for me to lay out my entire story, all of it; The good, the bad, and the just plain shit parts of it all. I look back down, finding it easier to talk to the tile floor, scuffed and dirty under the toe of my converse. “My name’s Frank and I’m addicted to painkillers.”

A few chime in with a quiet, “Hi Frank” which I thought only happened on the movies, but the instructor just nods. “And what brings you here today, Frank?” He’s middle-aged, brown hair and matching beard and stark hazel eyes. I feel sick again.

“I want to get sober.” It’s a simple answer; Why else does anyone go to Narcotics Anonymous? It’s certainly not for the donuts.

“But why now?” The instructor wonders. There’s an accusing sound to his voice I know I must be imagining, but I fight the urge to just turn away. I know I have to do this. I try to remind myself he’s just trying to help. “What made you decide you finally wanted to get clean?”

The corner of my lips raises, a small twitchy smile, and my heart seems to race in my chest. “My boyfriend,” I admit. “Gerard. I’m doing this because of him.”

“Good,” The instructor approves. He’s nodding again, gesturing for me to continue. And so I do.

“I guess I should start at the beginning.” I swallow hard and try to remember just where the beginning was, where all of my downward spiral started. “I was sixteen when I started using. I wasn’t smart and I wasn’t talented at anything, so I spent most of my time skateboarding. It was like this release, you know? When I was on the board, I was free. But I was bad at it and I was always falling. When I was sixteen, I took a pretty bad fall, ended up in the hospital with three cracked ribs and a gnarly scar on my chest. That was when I first started taking the pain meds. And after that, I just couldn’t stop.

And then two years later, I met Gerard. I remember the first time I saw him, I knew he was the one. Like love at first sight or some shit, but better because he was real...”

\---

I sip at my third cup of coffee, teeth sinking into the Styrofoam a little. My nerves and the caffeine are both building up, eating me alive, setting me on edge. I’m probably not nearly as stealthy as I think, staring at him across the few tables that separate us in the small cafe. It’s not like he notices me anyway.

His head is down, tangled red hair falling forward to cover half of his face, but the half I do see is pretty damn captivating. He chews on his lip, focusing intently on whatever is in front of him-- a couple papers strewn out across the wooden surface. His coffee is forgotten near his left arm, probably cold by now. I want so badly to say something, but words seem lost when I can’t even seem to remember my own name. What would I say to him?  _Hi, I’ve been watching you from across the coffee shop for the past hour and a half, I’d really appreciate it if you would let me touch your pretty fucking face._

I sigh again. This shouldn’t be so hard. My fingers tap anxiously on the tabletop and I find myself biting down on my own lip, tugging it between two teeth. I feel the familiar crave, that deep urge that beckons when things get this way. I’m not addicted to drugs-- I take them when I want to feel relaxed. That’s why I’m not on heroin or something, I know that shit messes you up. I’m not addicted. Sometimes I just want a little help getting through the day.

Now is one of those times.

Taking a deep breath, I push the chair back and stand up. It’s now or never, I tell myself and force a step forward. Then another. A few more steps, hovering over the stranger’s table, I feel awkward and out of place. Swallowing down my nerves, I claim the vacant chair across from him.

He looks up, startled, and glances around before his gaze meets mine. Piercing hazel eyes. Breathtaking. I feel my heart stutter, but instincts take over and I smile. “Hi.”

The stranger’s lips twitch a little in return. “Hello.”

I shake my head, breathing out a heavy sigh and admitting, “I couldn’t help but notice you look really distressed over here. And a pretty face like you shouldn’t frown so much, it’s really not very flattering.”

His eyes widen a fraction and his blush is almost hidden by the hair he lets fall into his face again. “Oh…” is all he says.

He seems the nervous one all of sudden, giving me enough courage to chuckle. “I’m Frank. Can I buy you another coffee?”

He reaches a hand out to wave to his cup, still half-filled with a black liquid. “I already have one--” He says, but the gesture is too close, sending the cup falling to the floor. The contents splatter across the tile, the Styrofoam rolling uselessly toward the exit as if it hopes to escape the mess. The stranger looks embarrassed instantly, looking like he might want to escape with it.

But I simply smile, quirking an eyebrow. “So about that coffee…”

After a half-hearted argument, he let’s me pay for a replacement drink-- Black coffee, double espresso-- and I learn his name is Gerard.

“So what is all this?” I wonder curiously, peering at some of the scattered papers.

Gerard sips at his drink, making a vague noise of discontent. “Work,” He explains. Most of the papers are of the same image-- A cartoon girl with green hair and a wicked scar across her right eye, a permanent scowl etched onto her face in nearly every variation. She’s set up in different poses, different outfits and varying scenes, but they’re most definitely still the same girl.

“This is awesome.” I run my fingers over a few depictions, feeling the indents where his pen pushed too hard into the smooth surface. “This is work?”

Gerard nods, looking coy. He fidgets under my scrutiny, an action I find undeniably adorable. From across the cafe, he was the sexy fire-haired artist, and now he’s meek and hesitant. The change is so drastic it’s like whiplash, but I can’t deny I like this version, too. “I’m pitching my idea for a comic to a rep for Dark Horse in a few days and I can’t seem to get it right.” He looks down at what he has on the table, sifting through a few images, comparing them and then looking back to his unfinished page and abandoned pen. “It’s like, I have the idea for where I want it to go, it’s just the journey that’s the hard part.” He looks up, meeting my eyes again and laughing. He waves a hand, shaking his head. “Sorry, my brother always tells me I talk too much about this shit. He’s not wrong.” He looks down longingly at his drawings, his expression distant. Like he’s putting up a wall. And I want past it.

“He’s not right either,” I say. I lean forward, enticed by the stranger and his images. “I want to hear about it.”

Gerard looks at me unbelieving, but smiles. “Well it’s like… I know where I want her to go, but I don’t know how to get her there. There’s so much stuff going through my head, I just want it to slow down. I want to take a step back and relax, but with the meeting in just a few days, I don’t have the time to relax.” He lets out a strained chuckle, but the gears in my head are whirring.

“Yeah, I totally understand that,” I admit. I tap a few fingers on my thigh, the noise muted through my jeans. There’s that anxious twist in my stomach again and I lean across the table, lowering my voice. “You know, I think I might be able to help you out. Have you ever tried… uh… Devil’s lettuce?”

Gerard is leaning closer, too, and he’s watching me with a look of curiosity. “What is that, is that like an herb or something?”

I laugh again. “Sort of.”

Gerard cocks an eyebrow. “Dude, we’re in a coffee shop and you’re offering me tea?”

I bite my tongue, trying to hide the smile I feel forming on my lips. “It’s not tea,” I explain. But it’s not like I can just spell it out for him in the middle of a crowded cafe. So I narrow my eyes at him, trying my best to convey without exact words what I’m trying to offer. Still, he doesn’t seem to understand and I sigh. “Look, do you want to get out of here?”

For a long minute, I think he might say no. I shouldn’t have offered; This was my one chance with a cool, attractive, nice guy and I blew it by asking him if he wanted to get high. But after a second, Gerard nods, his face brightening with a smile. “Yeah. Totally.”

In Manhattan, nobody drives anywhere. The traffic is a bitch and if you want to get anywhere fast, you learn early to invest in a bike. Since I was neither active enough to ride a bike nor stupid enough to waste money on a car, I relied heavily on public transportation-- Gerard seemed to have had the same idea, as he follows me out of the coffee shop and we manage to flag down a taxi within minutes. Inside the confines of the car, after giving the address to the cabbie, I turn to Gerard. He looks meek again, fidgeting with his binder, now crammed full with the different drawings of the cartoon girl. I wonder what else might be in there, what sorts of other things he’s sketched or created. I want to ask, but I save the question for another time. I focus on the man before me instead-- He casts me nervous glances, not fearful but shy. The right side of his lip hangs down when he smirks, and I realize only a second later why when he reaches for a pack of crumpled cigarettes buried deep in his jacket pocket. He flicks one out, holding it out as an offer to me. I gratefully accept and let him light up the cancer stick for me. It’s silent except for the flick and cshh sound when he ignites his own and I inhale deeply. The fumes and smoke do very little to ease the anxious knot in my stomach and my fingers twitch once again for the calming ease that the pills offer.

When we’ve reached my apartment-- I really wish I would have cleaned up a bit, but I don’t spend much time fretting-- I tell Gerard to make himself comfortable before disposing of my jacket and disappearing into the attached bedroom. Hidden beneath the contents of my nightstand drawer is the small baggie I’d been dying to get my hands on. My bottle of pills is pushed aside, forgotten for the time being, and I focus on the weed. I remember the first time I smoked, with a group of skater friends when I was fifteen-- They told me it wasn’t addicting, and they were right in a way. The drug itself wasn’t, but the calmness it offered was. It was relaxing and in my hectic life, serenity was the addiction.

In the living room, Gerard has discarded his coat on the sofa and positioned himself in front of my vast collection of movies. There’s no particular order, each DVD finding it’s own place on the shelf at random, but he skims each title. He looks pleased.

I take his hand gently in mine, feeling the sparks alight like fire on my skin at the simple contact, and lead him toward the couch. He watches me with a look of curiosity as I pull the baggie out, setting it on the coffee table in front of us. Gerard’s eyes widen in an instant, realization hitting him like a brick, and his mouth opens. No words come out.

“Devil’s lettuce,” I explain. “Have you ever smoked?”

Gerard’s silence isn’t broken, but he shakes his head no.

“You said you wanted relaxed.” I lean forward, filling up a paper with the grass, slowly rolling it in on itself. I lick the paper and press it closed, then hold it up at eye level.  At first glance, it might even pass as a cigarette, shorter and a little fatter and off-white. I make no move to light it yet-- He still has a chance to say no, and as much as I want to do this, I don’t want to make him feel like he has to.

Gerard’s eyes follow the joint. He looks entranced and I’m reminded of the first time I took opiates as a recreational activity. And then his eyes flick to mine. His tongue swipes along his lower lip and he nods.

I can’t help the smile that forms as I retrieve my lighter. Gerard scoots closer to me on the couch, his arm touching mine when I light the end. I meet his eyes and raise the joint to my lips, inhaling slowly. He looks enticed by the action and I hold it out to him. It smells bad and it tastes worse, but the burn in my lungs is familiar and promising.

Tentatively, Gerard takes the reefer from my hand, holding it delicately between two fingers. He glances quickly at me and presses it to his lips. He sucks in a breath, immediately pulling it back in a fit of coughs. I chuckle, taking it back and straightening up. “It’s not a cigarette,” I inform him. When he’s done hacking up a lung, I tug on his shoulder, turning him to face me. “You’re breathing in too fast. See, it’s thicker than cigarette smoke. Here--” Inhaling another deep breath of the pot, I hold it in my lungs for a second and then move even closer. His face is right in front of mine, his mouth hanging open a bit. I blow the smoke out and he breathes it in. His eyes close and he looks so fucking perfect like that, I can’t control myself. I close the final few inches and press my lips to his. And to my utter surprise, he doesn’t move away. Instead, he pushes back against me, deepening the kiss.

And in that moment, the drugs are forgotten and I think I’m on a new sort of high. That was the moment when Gerard became my addiction.

It’s all hands and keening noises when Gerard reaches out, pulling me into his lap. I don’t fight, rather enjoying the feeling of straddling his thighs, the joint still dangling from my fingers, my lips busy working against his. The kisses slow, becoming lazy as the high settles in. My head becomes fuzzy faster than Gerard’s but I take another hit, passing it back to him.

“Slow,” I remind him. “Don’t take too much or you’ll start coughing again.” It’s mesmerizing to watch his lips form around the end of the drag, his cheeks hollowing as he breathes in a short breath. He doesn’t hold it long before exhaling, but this time he manages to not choke on the fumes and I smile. It takes a few minutes for it to really set in, passing the diminishing fag back and forth. A lazy smile falls on his lips and I learn quickly it’s something I want to see more often.

He watches me with that faint smirk, glistening eyes that seem to spark with different shades of green and gold, and I find myself leaning in. I need to kiss him again. It feels like a desperation, a physical need, and I’m pleased to find he doesn’t argue. I can’t be sure whether it’s the high or something else, but he seems eager enough to continue.

It lasts a long time-- slow, melting kisses, tainted with tentative tongues and curious hands-- before Gerard starts to get restless. He fidgets, seeming more urgent to push into the kiss, pulling back for air more frequently. And then he sits back altogether, running a finger absently over the pulse he can undoubtedly feel in my neck. He doesn’t say anything. He looks flawless, his lips parted and glistening a dark pink, his eyes wide, pupils blown. I want him to just fucking kiss me again, but I wait silently.

“I have an idea,” He finally admits in a hushed tone. The sound of his voice is like an alarm going off in my head, sending wavelengths to each and every fiber in me, ricocheting and bouncing off into a dull buzz from the still avid high, but I’d be completely down for whatever idea he has, especially if the look on his face is anything to go by.

But within a second, he’s stumbling back away from me, scavenging his bag for something unknown and in another moment, he’s pulling free a sketchbook. My eyebrow raises and I watch him curiously, grabbing a pen and flipping to an empty page. He hunches over the book, scribbling away, and in an instant I think he forgets my existence. Still, I don’t mind. It’s somehow soothing to simply watch him, scratching away at whatever image is hidden behind the curtain of red hair. But a few minutes later, he abruptly stops his movements, looks up and kisses me hard, and then goes back to drawing as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

He does this a lot for the next few lasting hours of the high, like some weird pattern; Draw, hesitate, kiss me, retreat to drawing. It happens again and again and I’m no contender. I actually find myself giggling at one point which throws me into hysterical laughter. I get up once to make pizza rolls and grab a soda. Gerard steals some of my food and chugs half of my drink, but most of his time is either spent curled over his sketchbook or shoving his tongue into my mouth, both of which are equally mesmerizing tasks.

Gerard stays the night. We don’t have sex, or even sleep in the bedroom; When the buzz wears off and he’s complaining about the lingering taste and smell, I find myself drawn to him. I curl into his side and stroke my hand over his stomach, thigh, arm, and listen to him talk. I fall asleep eventually and when I wake up, the sun hanging low in the early Jersey sky, Gerard is still there.

It becomes a recurring thing. Sometimes the drugs are involved, but other times it’s just Gerard and I. We talk about a lot of things, from family to work to aspirations and stupid B-grade slasher flicks. We kiss sometimes, but it’s a casual thing, mostly when we’re getting high, the buzz just seems to radiate around the room in a calming haze and, whether he initiates it or I do, it always ends in a messy, half-assed make out session that doesn’t go any farther than a few heavy pants and slick tongues. We never put what we had together into words until  nearly two months after our initial meeting.

We’re lying in my living room, soberly watching a movie on the TV, when Gerard's phone starts ringing. My feet are flung across his lap, preventing him from standing up, and he pulls the cell free, answering it from his current position. There’s a long silence and I try not to eavesdrop, mostly because I can only hear his side of the conversation, before Gerard demands, “What do you mean they think it’s too vulgar? It’s fucking Fangoria! It’s in the damn name! Fan-GORE-ia.” I glance over at him. He rubs a hand over his face and pushes his hair back, letting out a fake chuckle, and then a calmness falls over his face and he doesn’t look upset-- He looks offended. Sad. Like someone just tripped over his puppy. He sniffles a bit and I see his jaw tighten. “It’s not the violence they found vulgar,” He seems to realize. “It’s the sex.”

This makes my ears perk up and I strain to hear whatever is being said on the other end without making it too obvious I’m eavesdropping. Still, I can’t make out words and after a minute, Gerard sighs. “Alright, fine. I’ll make another one. Thanks, Pete.” He hangs up and leans his head back on the sofa. His eyes are closed. I think he can feel me watching him though because he looks over at me and frowns. “You know the comic I was working on?” He asks. “The one I was making when we first met.” I offer a nod. Of course I remember, he spent the first high of his life kissing me and drawing it. “I sent it in to Fangoria, but they refused to print it. They’re the third company who has turned it down. Because the main characters have sex. A lot.”

I sit up a little straighter on the couch. “Then we’ll just have to find companies who publish that kind of shit.” It seems simple enough. But in all honesty, I’d never actually seen the comic. I’d seen plenty of Gerard’s other work, but that particular comic was, for whatever reason, off-limits. I’d asked to see it before, but Gerard always blushed and babbled out some excuse about bad luck or something.

At my words, Gerard looks over at me, narrowing his eyes a little, scrutinizing me. Be bites down gently on his lip before leaning into me, closing the distance between us. It occurs to me that this is our first sober kiss and the realization sends more sparks through me. When we’re high and kissing, it’s like fireworks over a calm lake-- Placid and beautiful. But now, it’s so different. There’s no calmness in me at all and I’m practically vibrating with the lack of serenity-- More than just fireworks, this single kiss is like dynamite.

And when he pulls back a moment later, he bites on his lip again. He remains close to me, a mere few inches away, and his eyes seem alight with the same effect I’m feeling. I’m not sure what to say, shocked and in awe and just wishing he would do it again. After a silence, Gerard speaks-- His voice is low and rough and he looks nervous. “I like kissing you,” He admits.

I smile, raising a hand to brush my fingertips against his jaw. “That’s good,” I nod my approval. “Because I like it when you kiss me.”

Gerard grins down at me and presses his lips to mine again, more explosions in my stomach and chest, erupting and sending shockwaves of pleasure to every inch of me.

That’s the first time we had sex. Right there on the couch in the middle of my little apartment. Sober. And even then, I could feel it-- Deep and tantalizing, addicting and enticing. I was falling in love.

Afterwards, Gerard and I lie there, a heap of sweaty, naked entangled limbs under a single thin blanket. I couldn’t differentiate what was him and what was me because we were like one being, one solo entity. My head is on his shoulder, lips pressed against his neck, not in a kiss really but just there. His fingers trail in patterns across my side, raising goosebumps on the skin he touches.

“I want to show you something,” He mumbles. He sounds sleepy, content and peaceful. I understand, the same feelings flooding me as well. Still, he reaches over me, over the edge of the sofa, rummaging around on the floor for a second before settling back next to me with his sketchbook. He flips through a few pages, finding the one he wants and holding it in his hands for a moment. He meets my gaze and hands it over. “This is the comic I sent in for publishing.”

It feels like a feat suddenly, having it in my grasp-- Two months, he kept this from me. He hoarded it and spewed about bad luck, and now it was in my hands, ready for my eyes, and I don’t understand what changed until I look down at it. It’s not the girl Gerard had drawn when I’d first met him. Instead, she was now a he. And he looked an awful lot like me.

“When we met,” Gerard says in a barely audible voice. “Sitting here with you, high and kissing you, I realized I wanted you. But I didn’t really think it was possible, so I drew this. Like my own little twisted fantasy or something.” I flip through a few pages of the comic, finding easily the other main character-- Another boy with fire engine red hair. Within a few more pages, I find the vulgarity the publishing companies were talking about. A few very risque scenes between the characters that looked more and more like Gerard and I with each passing panel.

My eyes widen on a certain image, the two small drawings caught in an extremely lewd position, and hold the book back. “It’s very… detailed.”

I glance over at Gerard and he blushes, looking embarrassed. I close the sketchbook and set it carefully on the coffee table, sliding two fingers under his chin and tilting his head so he has no choice but to look at me. My tongue slides over my lip and I kiss him again.

Another three months pass with Gerard under the term of my boyfriend. It’s happy. It’s mindblowing that someone as perfect as him even wants to waste time with me, but by some miracle, he does. He actually seems to rather like spending time with me. On most occasions, he spends more time at my apartment than his own. He likes curling up on the couch and getting high-- usually using that time to alternate between actually working and slow, lazy kisses-- or watching stupid movies while I play with his hair and grumble about how the ends are fading and he should really touch it up soon before it turns orange.

Gerard is out with another publishing company, prepped with three fully sketched comics he’s pitching in hopes of getting one noticed. When he gets back, sooner than I had expected, I can immediately tell something is wrong. He looks unsettled, on edge, and fuming. He throws his bag into one corner of my apartment and rubs both hands anxiously through his tangled hair. His eyes are wide, his lip red from gnawing on it. He looks like he might throw himself into a panic attack if he doesn’t calm down.

He mumbles a few curse words before sitting down hard on the sofa and putting his head in his hands. I tentatively sit down next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder, unsure of what to say or do. “Gee?”

He looks up at me with red eyes, looking hurt and alone. The expression makes my stomach twist uncomfortably, physically pained by seeing him like this. “They turned them all down,” He finally informs me. “Every single fucking comic, they rejected.” He laughs humorlessly and his knee begins bouncing anxiously. “They told me that they weren’t the kind of images they supported. But that’s what I do! I write gore comics! And even fucking Fangoria doesn’t want me!”

“Gerard…” I start softly. I want to say something supportive, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing I can say will make this better.

He stands up abruptly, running another shaking hand through his hair. “I need to do something…” I expected this. Whenever he gets worked up-- turned down by a comic company or stressed about what he’s creating-- he feels incapable. He feels an unnerving urge to do something productive to prove just as much to himself as everyone else that he  _is_ capable. He is able to make something worthwhile.

I stand up, too, and touch his arm, willing him to focus on me. “You need to calm down, is what you need.”

In any normal relationship, that single statement would be cause for even more of a fight. But what Gerard and I have isn’t a normal relationship and when he meets my gaze, he knows exactly what I’m offering. I’m offering him calmness.

Gerard swallows hard and manages a nod, falling onto the sofa and waiting while I disappear into my bedroom. But this time is different-- Instead of the baggie of weed, I reach for the single blue bottle inside the same drawer. He needs serenity, he needs his mind to just shut up, and this can give that to him faster than the weed in a much higher voltage.

I sit down on the floor near Gerard’s feet and place the unopened bottle of pills on the coffee table. I make no move to open them. Gerard watches them silently and I’m too nervous to actually look at him to see a reaction. After a few minutes, he slides off of the couch to the floor beside me. I risk a glance in his direction, but his eyes are still glued to the bottle. “What is it?” He eventually asks.

“Painkillers,” I reply. I look down at my lap, twisting my hands together. It’s a nervous gesture and right now, my heart is thrumming so hard I’m afraid it might fly out of my chest. I can feel his gaze on me now, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can’t bear the thought of what he could be thinking. I didn’t really think before, but now I’m terrified of the fact that he might say no. I’ve never told Gerard about this particular vice and if he decides he doesn’t like it, he could easily rid himself of me. But that thought makes me sick. I would give up the medication in a heartbeat if it meant keeping Gerard. I sigh and swallow down my fears. “I started taking them when I was sixteen,” I explain. “After a skateboard accident.” I look up then, meeting Gerard’s piercing hazel eyes. “I swear to you, I am not addicted. I promise. It’s not an addiction. Sometimes I take them, but I decide when. They don’t control me, Gerard I swear to you.” It hadn’t occurred to me until now just how scared I was of how he would react to discovering this part of me, but now I felt the need to defend myself before he got the wrong idea. “If you don’t want them, say no. Tell me. Just say the word and I can flush them all right fucking now.”

Gerard watches me for a minute longer and then, slowly, a smile forms on his lips and he’s leaning into kiss me, soft and sweet and I’m reminded of our first sober kiss. When he pulls back, he takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “I trust you,” He tells me and then turns back to the table and shifts on the floor. “So how does this work? You just… Take them?”

“You can,” I allow. I unscrew the cap, dropping it off to the side and spilling a few pills onto the table, counting out a few. “But swallowing them means you have to wait until the effect kicks in, and the high doesn’t last as long.” I straighten the pills and pull out my wallet, grabbing a random card-- My license I think-- and then abandon the billfold, too.

“As opposed to…?” He sounds hesitant and immediately I look up at him, card in my hand, hand frozen above the table, straightened pills still untouched. I think he knows where I’m going with this and I recall my first time snorting painkillers. It was scary and gross and I had a headache for three days afterwards, but the high was enough to keep me coming back for more.

“We don’t have to do it,” I remind him. I put the card down on the coffee table, emphasising the point. I turn to look at him, tracing a finger along the curve of his jaw, across his perfect lips.

Gerard shakes his head and for a minute, I’m actually relieved. He’s telling me no, he doesn’t want to do this. But he turns to the table again and the relief is replaced with thrill when I realize he’s telling me just the opposite. He picks up the card and hands it back, a nervous smile twitching onto his lips. “I want to.”

I crush the pills beneath the edge of the license, muttering statistics the whole time, like how much he should take since it’s his first time and how the high should affect him. When I’ve straightened them into two single lines, the same length and width, parallel to each other, I produce a dollar bill. I roll it up so it’s similar to a cigarette, but slightly thinner and hollow, before holding it out to Gerard. He looks excited and scared as his eyes flit between the drugs and my own hazel gaze. He bites down on his lip and shakes his head. “You first.”

I abide, mostly because I want him to feel reassured. I shift so I’m on my knees, leaning over the table, pressing the bill into my left nostril and pushing the right side in. I start at the bottom of the line and inhale sharply, following the white powder, mesmerized by how easily it just disappears. When it’s gone, I sit up. It stings, feeling dry and raw inside my nose, and I sniffle, wiping at any excess powder.

Gerard is watching me with wide eyes, already looking high in a way. His lips are parted and he’s watching me with a dazed expression. I hold out the bill and this time he takes it from me. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip again, mimicking my position on his knees. He looks unsure of himself, leaning over the table awkwardly. “How do I…?” He gestures around with his hands in a vague motion so I scoot closer.

I take his arm, leading it toward his nose and then pressing on his back so he’s closer to the line of drugs. “Start at the bottom,” I direct, positioning the bill at the end. “They go in easier that way. Breathe in through your nose. And, contrary to the term “snorting,” don’t just suck them up in or you’ll end up sneezing and only get a little bit. You need to keep your inhaling constant, but if you go slow they won’t make it past your nasal passages.”

He nods and wriggles closer and, after only a moment’s hesitation, I see the drugs disappearing before my eyes.

He blinks a few times, coughing once and rubbing his nose. “Holy shit,” He laughs. “Holy shit that burns.”

He falls back beside me, disposing of the dollar on the coffee table where only a few traces of the drugs still lay. It takes about ten minutes for the high to actually kick in, but in no time, Gerard and I are spread out on the living room floor, pointing at the ceiling and attempting to make pictures in the weird grainy texture. I’m giggling, claiming to see a walrus in the bumpy surface though apparently Gerard doesn’t see it. He’s watching me with a serenity I’d only seen on him a few times. It went deeper than the high, striking something more than just a buzz. And then he’s kissing me fiercely, demanding and desperate, and I let myself give in to his urgency, relishing in the pleasure he always seems able to make stream through me like the blood in my veins. But when he leans back, behind the dilated pupils and dazed look, is something else. Before I have time to decipher what that something is, Gerard bites down on his lip and laces a few fingers through my hair. “I love you,” He says, and even in my haze, I know this is the first time he’s ever said that to me. I know that this is more than just an effect of the drugs, it’s more. It’s  _everything_.

So I smile and nudge my nose up against his. “I love you, too.”

Seven months after our initial meeting, Gerard and I decide to move in together. It’s not like he doesn’t basically live in my apartment already-- He has clothes in my closet and a toothbrush in my bathroom and food in my fridge and after so long, we just kind of realized it didn’t make sense to pay two rents. So he packed up his things and paid his last months rent and that was it. Simple.

What wasn’t simple was the realization that my apartment was not built for two people to live in full time.

“I’m just saying,” I tell him one night during the first month sharing my apartment. “That I don’t really like waking up with oil pastels mashed into the sheets. It’s kind of inconvenient and a waste of pastels.” Gerard is frowning at me from his perch on the kitchen counter, arms crossed indignantly. “Look,” I sigh, pulling out a bag of frozen peas and closing the freezer. “I’m just asking if it would kill you to not use pastels in the bed.”

“Well where am I supposed to use pastels at?” He wonders. “You told me I can’t draw on the couch anymore.”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Because you got paint on the cushions and one of your pencils ripped a hole in it!” I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. After a few breaths, I step forward between Gerard’s legs, resting my palms on his thighs. “I don’t want to fight,” I tell him. “I was just thinking that maybe my apartment is too small for two people.”

Gerard’s face falls expressionless. “Oh…” The hurt in his voice is unbearable and he chews on his lip looking embarrassed. “You should have just told me. I’m sure I can talk to my old landlord and get my old place back--”

I find myself shaking my head fervently at the realization of what he thinks I’m saying. “No!” I exclaim. “No no no no no. Gerard. Not what I meant.” I let out a strained laugh, stroking a few fingers across his leg. “No, I meant that maybe we should try to find another place. Together. Somewhere bigger.”

Gerard looks relieved and pulls me in for a long, lingering kiss. He doesn’t reply, but I take it as a yes and the next day I start looking for apartments.

It takes a few weeks, but eventually we find a place big enough for the two of us. There’s a spare room I told Gerard would be perfect for his studio and he jumped at the opportunity to have a secluded place for his art. Though, when we actually move in, I spend most of the time he’s cramped in the studio in the corner of the room, admiring his work, so “secluded” doesn’t really apply.

Eighteen months. A year and a half that Gerard and I have actually been a couple. And it’s perfect. He’s perfect. After a few months, he found a company that was ecstatic to publish one of his comics-- The one he drew when we first met, the one of us. They signed him soon after and published his stuff regularly. Of course, Gerard still had a busy mind and started relying more and more on the painkillers to help him clear his head. I didn’t mind so much-- I liked seeing him in his high state, his routine of kissing me and drawing or sketching or painting, whatever the case may be. When he was high, he had a tendency to just lie on the floor, staring at the ceiling, and mumble about how much he loved me. I would sit beside him and listen, content to hear words I sometimes didn’t even understand, because I felt it, too. I loved him just as much.

A year and a half  that Gerard and I had been a couple when I got the phone call. I’m taking my regular lunch, escaping from the confines of the GameStop that seemed too small, too hot, too suppressing. I sit down on the curb outside and twist the cap off of my Pepsi, taking a drink when the phone in my pocket vibrates with life. I pull it free, seeing Gerard’s name flashing across the screen. It’s not unusual for him to call on my lunch break and I smile.

“Hey baby,” I say into the device. “I’m just at lunch now, I was gonna call you.”

There’s a small silence on the other end before Gerard’s confused voice breaks it. “Frankie?”

“Gerard?” I set my soda on the curb and shift a little, wondering if the reception sucks out here. “Gee, are you there?”

Gerard makes a soft noise, a barely audible grumble. “Huh? Yeah, I’m right here. I love you... I love you so much.”

I chuckle and roll my eyes. I glance around, lowering my voice. “Are you high?”

“Yeah…” Gerard grumbles again and I hear a yawn stretching out from his side of the conversation. “Baby, I’m tired… I…”

His voice trails off, no more words coming. This isn’t the first time Gerard’s done drugs by himself, but something is off. Something seems very, very wrong. “Gerard?” I ask again. I swallow hard against the horrible feeling I have swirling in my stomach. “Gee, are you okay?”

“I think maybe…” He pauses again, breathing out a long sigh. His words are starting to sound slurred and I think he realizes this. “Baby, I think I took a little too much…”

The words ring out in my head and my heart is beating painfully against my ribcage. It hurts all over, feeling numb and surreal at the same time. “Gerard?” My voice is higher than I intended but I don’t care. Nothing matters anymore, only Gerard. I have to get to him. I need to make sure he’s okay. “Where are you? Are you home? Gee, can you hear me?”

“Mmhmm…” He hums softly, but I don’t know what it’s a response to. The line goes dead. It feels like ice spreading through me. I’m shaking when I curse and shove the cell phone back into my pocket. I don’t bother telling my boss I’m leaving, I can’t focus on him right now. My mind has zeroed in on Gerard.

The ride back to the apartment is too long. Cars have started blurring before me through the tears staining my vision. A few honk at me and I’m pretty sure I’ve run six redlights at least, but none of it matters. It takes what feels like ages to reach the apartment and even longer to race up the stairs to the third floor. I shove my keys in, turning and leaving them hanging from the knob when I push the door open and race into the apartment.

“Gerard!” I call out. I don’t see him anywhere. “Fuck, Gerard! Where are you?!” I check the bedroom, the bathroom, and then throw open the door to his studio. A canvas falls to the ground when the door hits the wall and a few loose sheets of paper flutter around at the movement. But none of it matters but the body on the floor.

“Gerard?” My voice is gone suddenly, raw and used and choked with tears that don’t seem to stop. He’s curled in on himself, his fading red hair falling over his face. I drop to my knees and pull him closer to me. His lips are pale and dry and his eyes are closed, but I take comfort in the fact that he’s shaking in my arms. He’s moving. He’s still alive.

I pull free my phone again and push in the buttons, holding it to my ear with one hand and cradling Gerard to my chest with the other. “I--I need an ambulance!” I gasp into the phone, trying my best to control the sobs that overtake me. “My boyfriend, he overdosed. I need help. Please…”

The ambulance arrives only minutes later and I watch helplessly as EMT’s scurry around the small room, nothing but flashes of dark blue uniforms and indistinct faces as they load him onto a gurney and take his vitals. They don’t take me with him-- They can’t unless I’m family, they say, and apparently the fact that I’m his fucking boyfriend, a hysterical mess at the moment, isn’t good enough.

I call Gerard’s brother, Mikey, crying into the phone, telling him what happened and begging him to take me to the hospital. He agrees and when he shows up to get me, his eyes are rimmed with red, his bottom lip raw from biting down on it. It’s a habit the brothers share.

The ride to the hospital is the most agonizing fifteen minutes of my life and when Mikey’s car stops outside, I’m not really sure anymore I want to be here. I have no idea what awaits me beyond those glass doors and the fear of what it could be is worse than anything I’ve ever felt. Still, I climb out and follow Mikey into the lobby, following their directions to the emergency room, and facing once and for all what was waiting for us...

\---

I twist my hands together in front of me, the need to do something with them overbearing. Around me, strangers watch with pitying gazes. Some of them have started tearing up. I avoid their eyes and look down at my shoes again.

“What happened when you got to the hospital?” The instructor asks. His voice is soft. I can tell he already knows how this story ends.

I sniffle and wipe a hand under my nose, looking up at his stupid hazel eyes. “Gerard was in stable condition, they told us, but not really. They let us see him and that was even worse than I’d imagined. There was a tube down his throat and they pumped his stomach, but of course there weren’t any pills there. I taught him better than that.” I laugh humorlessly. I feel tears trailing down both cheeks but make no move to wipe them away. “He was on a machine for two days before Mikey made the order to pull him off life support. He hated seeing his brother hooked up like that, breathing with the help of a machine. And I remember screaming at him. I told him it was his fault, that he was killing his brother, but…” I shake my head sadly and look back down. “But it was my fault. It was me all along.” I sniffle once more and lean back in the uncomfortable seat. “Mikey hated me for a long time because he blamed me, too. But nobody hated me more than I hated myself. Eventually though, he stopped hating me. He started being the only one to actually care.

“He told me that Gerard loved me more than anything. He wouldn’t want to see me destroying myself because he was gone, but that was the point. I took the one good thing I had in life and I broke it. I destroyed it.  _I killed him._  But Mikey didn’t give up. He signed me up for the programs. I killed his brother and he helped me. For what? Like suddenly my life means something now that he’s gone? It doesn’t feel like it. Mikey tells me that I’m doing this for Gee, but I don’t know. All I know is that I’m done suffering.”

I take a deep breath and look up to meet the instructor’s eyes again, this time my own feeling dry. I open my arms in a gesture meant to encompass everything. “So that’s why I’m here. I was stupid to think that it could last forever, the two of us. But he made me feel invincible and I wanted him to feel the same way. I need to get clean because I lost the one good thing I had in my life. This is for every time he fell and I didn’t catch him. For every pill he ever took because of me, every second of my life, every breath I have left, because I took it from him.”

The instructor is nodding along, his eyes boring into mine for a long time before he turns his attention to the clock on the far wall. “That’s all that we have time for at this meeting, but I hope to see all of you back next week. We’ll hear someone else’s story.”

And just like that, the meeting disperses. Everyone seems to forget me so quickly as they shuffle to the refreshment table, but I make a quick exit out the side door. I see the familiar car parked a few yards up. I climb into the passenger's side, pulling my seatbelt on and sighing.

The car pulls away from the curb before he speaks, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “How was the meeting?” Mikey wonders casually. He always asks the same thing and I usually tell him the same answer: Fine.

But this time I turn my gaze out the window. It makes my chest hurt, seeing the resemblance between Gerard and Mikey. “I told my story,” I admit. “About Gerard.”

Mikey nods silently, not replying until the car is parked outside of my apartment, the same one I shared with Gerard. It feels too empty these days without him, but I kept his studio the same. Like some of his art will fill the gap he left in my chest when he died.

Mikey turns to me, his face not relaying any emotion aside from a small smile on his lips. “He would be proud of you, Frankie.”

I don’t reply. I don’t know what to say. Without Gerard, I’m a mess, but slowly I’m trying to put myself back together. So I just nod, trying to believe what Mikey is saying is the truth. I have to believe him for now because otherwise I would fall apart again. He’s all that I have left without his brother and, even though I’m to blame for Gerard’s death, Mikey seems to have forgiven me.

Maybe it’s about time I forgave myself, too.

**[HAPPY BIRTHDAY RACHEL.**

**Why thank you, self. That's very nice of you.**

**So, yes. Today is my birthday. And it sucked. Hard. So I spent the day hidden away in my bedroom, writing this depressing one-shot because I like sad stories. This entire one shot was based on The Used's song Meant To Die and seriously if you don't know it, you need to.**

**Fucking love you. xoRachel]**


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